Revelations of the Remarkable
by CrypticCalico
Summary: A very curious thing happens when a newcomer to Tashmore Lake meets the acclaimed Mort Rainey. If John Shooter IS Mort, then how come Alexandra Whitaker can see him, too? MortxOC eventually
1. Hiking

Chapter 1

Alexandra Whitaker had never been one for hiking. So she didn't understand exactly why she had dragged herself out of her warm, cozy bed at 5 o'clock this morning to go trudging through the forest in the mud and the uncomfortable humidity. The insects were driving her mad, and to make matters worse, she was lost.

"What a wonderful idea, Alex," she muttered to herself, pushing her way through a thicket of brambles. "This is very inspirational."

A recent graduate of Boston University, Alex had always aspired to publish a book before she settled down and got a job. To do that, she had needed to get away, somewhere that she could think and write in peace, with no interruptions from her nosy family or her party-hard social group.

Consequentially, she'd found Tashmore Lake to be the perfect place for all of this, with its population of maybe one hundred and the miles upon miles of nature that separated everyone from everyone else.. A few months before receiving her diploma, she had decided that a retreat was in order. Unbeknownst to her relatives and friends, she'd bought a small house on the outskirts of Tashmore, where she'd disappeared to following graduation.

She'd known that they would be worried. But after she'd sorted some things out and had the first few chapters of her book written, she would call them and let them know where she was.

Alex yelped as a stiff briar branch suddenly whipped back and struck her across the arm. An angry red welt appeared almost instantly on her fair skin.

She sighed and stopped, leaning against the nearest tree to examine her surroundings. Her stomach rumbled; the paltry picnic lunch she'd packed for herself hadn't sufficiently relieved her hunger. Then again, she hadn't known that she would be out here for so long.

A glint of silver through the trees to her left caught her attention. She wove her way through the tangle of trunks and shrubs carefully, her heart pounding.

Her spirits lifted as she realized that the trees were thinning, and what she had first thought was a clearing ahead of her was, in fact, a road. A familiar vehicle was parked alongside it, the sun shining off of its mirrors.

Alex stumbled through the ditch and onto the gravel road where her car awaited her.

A low-riding, navy blue 1979 Thunderbird was her ride. It had been the cheapest vehicle she could find. Her friends had always been attempting to convince her to buy something newer, but she had refused. Secretly, she loved its heavy frame and the sturdiness of its build. However, it was a gas guzzler, and tended to stall at the most inconvenient of times.

She threw her backpack into the passenger's seat and got into her car. The Thunderbird started without a hitch, and Alex sighed in relief.

Alex was halfway home when her car decided to stall.

"Shit!" She hit her palms against the steering wheel in frustration. "Not now! Come _on!_" She turned the key in the ignition. The engine caught, coughed once, and died.

Alex leaned back against the back of the seat and exhaled slowly. She popped the hood of her car and got out to check the engine. She stared at the machinery for a good five minutes before realizing -- or admitting -- that she had no idea what she was looking at. Shadows were beginning to lengthen across the road, and the sun had almost vanished from sight. The trees surrounding her were starting to look ghostly and foreboding, their dark leaves making an eerie rustling sound that caused chills to run down her spine.

Her cell phone was, of course, exactly where it always was when she needed it: at home on the kitchen table. She needed to find help soon or would end up spending the night in her car. A square of light was emanating through the trees, a short distance up the hill on the right side of the road. The dark outline of a building could be faintly seen against the darkening sky.

_A house, _Alex thought. _Somebody had better be home._

So she locked the doors of her car and plodded slowly up the incline, the bottom of her mud-caked, too-long pant legs tripping her every few steps. She walked onto the deck, wincing at the creak the stairs made, and stood for a moment, psyching herself up to explain what had happened. Taking a deep breath, she knocked loudly on the door and hoped that someone was home.

Mort Rainey was jerked awake when he heard the knock at his door. He made a face and pulled a pillow over his head, hoping that whoever it was would give up if he didn't answer them. A few minutes of silence passed, then a louder knock and a woman's hesitant voice calling: "Hello? Is anybody there?"

Mort groaned and sat up. He ran a hand through his already bedraggled hair and straightened his glasses. Not that it made him look any more presentable. He slid his feet into his tattered gray slippers slowly, thinking that perhaps if he procrastinated long enough, the person at his door would leave. No such luck.

"Hello?" the woman said, knocking for the third and loudest time yet. Mort got up off the sofa heavily, pulling his favourite bathrobe tighter around his body. He padded across the wooden floor to the door and pulled it open.

"Yes?" he said.

The woman standing in front of him was of middling height, with shoulder-length light brown hair and blue eyes. Her shirt was ripped at the sleeve, and her shoes and pants covered in mud. She looked nervous. "Uh, hello. My car broke down over there, just through those trees," she said, "and I was wondering if I could use your phone? I just need to call the tow service."

Mort scratched the back of his head and opened the door, motioning her inside. "Go ahead," he told her. "Phone's right there."

"Thank you so much, Mr - ?" the woman said as she stepped indoors.

"Rainey," Mort said. "Morton Rainey." He closed the door behind her.

"Alexandra Whitaker," the woman told him.

She picked up the phone and stared at it for a moment, before turning back to him, her cheeks taking on a touch of red. "I'm sorry. I'm new around here; I don't know the number…"

Mort sighed. He dialed the number for her and went into the kitchen to wait for her to finish her call. He didn't want to intrude on her privacy, and he felt awkward enough as it was. He was never any good with strangers.

He was pulling a glass out of a cupboard to pair with the waiting jug of juice on the table when a shadow fell over him. A familiar sinister feeling washed over him, and he didn't even need to turn around to know who was there.

"Hello, pilgrim," John Shooter said. "Long time no see. How's our darlin' wife?"

Mort wanted to scream, but his throat constricted suddenly and all that came out was a low, choked whimper. His feet rooted themselves to the floor, and the glass in his hand was frozen halfway out of the cupboard.

"I'm finished, Mr. Rainey," Alexandra's voice called from the doorway. "I'm so sorry to bother you at this time of day -- oh! You have company! I'm terribly sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to thank you for using your phone. I'll let myself out."

Mort's mouth opened and closed soundlessly as Alexandra disappeared into his living room. He heard the door slam. The glass slipped out of his hand and fell with a crash, shattering into countless shards all over the kitchen floor.

Shooter was saying something to him, but all Mort heard was a faint buzzing sound. He was too astonished to comprehend anything except for the realization of what had just happened:

Alexandra Whitaker had seen Shooter.


	2. Reflections and a Mystery

Chapter 2

Shooter had disappeared only a few minutes earlier, mostly owing to an enraged outburst from Mort.

Mort sat on the edge of his sofa, head in his hands. He still couldn't make any sense of it. He had half a mind to run outside after her, in his bathrobe and slippered feet, and beg her to come back in. He'd always thought that Shooter was a part of himself, but if Alexandra had seen him…It changed everything. He was already beginning to doubt his previous theories concerning Shooter's existence.... This incident only confused him more.

The silence of his cabin was dense, almost overwhelming. The only sounds comprehensible were the gentle ticking of his clock, and the low hum of his refrigerator. This was one of the times Mort wished very much that he had a television; to turn on just for the comfort of the sound of others' voices.

The evening shadows were beginning to creep inside and take over the corners of the room, and the ornamental lamp shed only a dim light over a small area around its bulb.

It used to feel cozy, warm and friendly and welcoming. Now that he was living completely alone, it felt more eerie than anything else. Rain began to drum a scattered beat on the roof of the cabin, a dull sound that reverberated through the frame of the building.

A sudden gust of wind howled outside his window, making Mort shudder as it reminded him of his wife's final shriek before her life was ended.

Something scraped along the exterior of the northern wall. He assumed it to be one of the trees, bent by the wind and feeling its way along his cabin with its branches. But he couldn't help his head filling with images of Amy and Ted's decaying bodies in the ground outside, just a few meters away. What if the rain washed away all the soil in his garden, and the next day when he went outdoors he would find them, unearthed and decomposing?

The scratching sound persisted, and Mort's mind conjured a horrible image of his wife and her lover's bodies, resurrected but not living, clawing at his wall, like a gruesome scene from a horror film. Their blank eyes rolling and their white, white skin mottled with dirt and dried blood, the ragged gashes of their partially severed necks full of mud and rotting flesh….

He shuddered and got up to close the curtains on his window, knowing that he was being ridiculous. But he knew he'd feel better knowing that nobody - or nothing - could look in at him. A thunderclap boomed out overhead and he jumped, a shock of adrenaline running through his body. He exhaled slowly, relief washing over him, and chuckled nervously at himself for scaring so easily.

Mort hated thinking of himself as a murderer, and despised Shooter for his frequent "check-ups"; to make sure he hadn't gone crazy, or simply confessed, Mort didn't know. And they certainly did not help him at all to forget about the grisly acts he had committed. He did _try_ to forget, but forgetting something that haunted you every day of your life, in every way imaginable, proved harder than he'd initially thought. Every day, guilt and anguish whirled about in his head until he felt ill with self-loathing.

He stepped away from the window. The living room was almost completely obscured in darkness, aside from the weak light given off by the lamp on his shelf. He walked over to the lamp and turned it off, plunging himself into immediate blackness. After his eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, he navigated carefully around the coffee table and flopped back onto his couch, trying to make his mind go blank. He took off his glasses and set them down beside his phone before curling up on the sofa. He longed for sleep, burying his face in a pillow as if it could shelter him from the world….

XXXX

As Alex trudged back down the hill and through the trees, it began to rain. Her hair and clothes were soon drenched, sticking to her body and proving a dreadful hindrance.

She felt terrible about intruding on Mr. Rainey, especially at this time of night. It had all been horribly embarrassing, first waking him up (she assumed he'd been sleeping when she'd knocked on his door, as per the state of his hair), not knowing the number for the tow truck service, and on top of that, interrupting him when he had company.

She bent her head into the wind and finally made it out onto the muddy road. She squinted her eyes and frowned. The road was bare as far as she could see in each direction. Her car was gone. _I could have sworn I left it right here, _she thought to herself in confusion. Had it been stolen? It had been locked, hadn't it?

Alex felt a rush of panic. What was she supposed to do now? Someone had stolen her car, and she was out here in the middle of nowhere…. At least her wallet and identification hadn't been in her car. She tried to recall what exactly _had_ been in it; her backpack containing her picnic lunch and her favourite cap, the can of Raid that she'd forgotten on the passenger seat during her hike, a pair of sunglasses, and a spare tire in the trunk. No huge loss; luckily she'd put her house keys in her pocket before leaving her home that morning.

Then she remembered that the man who'd answered the phone at the tow truck service had told her he'd send someone right away, and she immediately felt somewhat better. When they arrived, she would explain the situation, and they could give her a lift back into town.

So she sat down at the edge of the road to wait, not caring about the dirt and mud. Her clothes were filthy enough as it was, it would make no difference. She waited for a lengthy stretch of time, during which she began to trace patterns in the mud to curb her boredom.

She checked her watch. For once, she was glad that her friend had bought her the geeky, waterproof watch with the little light-up mechanism. She'd worn it mostly to humor them at first, but it had grown on her over time, and she was now actually quite fond of it. The watch lit up and she had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. It had been almost an hour and a half since she'd left Mr. Rainey's house. No one had come, and she had an awful feeling that no one was going to.

Alex turned her face towards the now darkened house on the hill. She knew she had no choice now. She got up stiffly, her limbs rigid and sore from sitting on the cold, wet ground, and miserably began to walk back up the incline, through the trees towards Mort Rainey's cabin.

_**A/N: This chapter was probably sort of boring, but I felt I had to explain some of Mort's feelings and stuff. Sorry. Happy reading =)**_


	3. Overnight

Chapter 3

Alex walked up the slope once again, stumbling amongst the mud and the wet leaves that littered the ground. The wind howled and shrieked, blowing cold air around her in the surrounding darkness. She had absolutely no idea what she was going to tell Mr. Rainey. Her car had disappeared, her _locked _car…Shuddering at the humiliating prospect of bothering him _again_, she failed to notice the small, mud-filled hole that she was about to step in.

She caught herself with her palms before she could fall flat on her face, scraping them on the wet gravel. They stung a little, but not enough for her to be worried. The same could not, unfortunately, be said for her right ankle. As she fell, an agonizing, tearing sensation ripped through her tendons.

Sitting up, she bit her lip and gingerly pulled her foot out of the hole. The mud made a horrible squelching sound, like a plunger being pulled from a stopped-up sink. Wincing as pain laced through the muscle, Alex rolled up her pant leg to assess the damage.

She was almost afraid to look at it. When she plucked up enough courage to take a glance, however, it didn't look as bad as she'd first thought. The skin was swelling, and it would soon begin to bruise. The cool rain ran down it in rivulets, numbing, soothing. Alex pursed her lips and looked towards the cabin, measuring the distance with her eyes and wondering if she could drag herself up to the door. She would take a stab at it, and if she couldn't make it…She sighed, hoping that she wouldn't have to resort to calling for help. How mortifying.

XXXX

Mort was awoken once again by a knocking on his door. He was confused for a moment. _Didn't this happen already?_ He wondered sleepily. But the knocking was different this time, quieter, lower… He squinted at his watch. It was five minutes past midnight. Frowning, he sat up and wondered briefly if Shooter had returned to pay him a late night visit; his idea of humor. Then again, Shooter usually didn't grace him with a knock. Most of the time he invited himself right in, infuriatingly enough.

Mort groped for his glasses and put them on, swiping his fingers through his hair as he hauled himself off the couch. He walked barefoot across the cold floor, half-conscious of the fact that he'd forgotten to don his slippers. He went over to the shelf and switched on his lamp before going to answer the knocks.

A gust of icy wind blew into his home as he opened the door, instantly wrenching him out of his drowsy state. At first he saw nothing but the darkness ahead of him, the forest before him blanketed in the blackness of the night, and the choppy lake to his left, covered in a silvery luster from the moon's light. A quiet shuffling below him drew his gaze downward.

Alexandra Whitaker stared up at him from the floor of his deck, pleading at him with her big blue eyes. She was absolutely covered in mud, her hair plastered against her head, and her body soaked with rainwater. There were dried scratches on her arms, and she was favoring her right ankle; every inch of bare skin was gooseflesh. She was the most defeated-looking person Mort had ever seen.

"What happened?" were the first words out of his mouth, after getting over the shock of seeing her that way.

"I injured my foot," she said, giving him a weak smile. "It's kind of a long story…" she then trailed off into an uncomfortable silence, during which Mort realized that he was being very impolite.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, offering his hand to help her up. "Why don't you come in?"

Alex took his hand and pulled herself up as well as she could, wobbling precariously on her good foot. She put a hand on the doorframe to steady herself, shivering in the chilly night air.

"Need a hand?" Mort asked, experiencing a small, irrational hope that her answer wouldn't be the obvious one.

Alexandra nodded, and then blushed. "Sorry," she apologized.

Mort awkwardly put an arm around her shoulders, and helped her limp into his cabin.

"I'm really sorry about this," she said again as he assisted her into his living room. He made a face behind her back as her sopping clothes and hair dripped all over his carpet, and then soaked his sofa as he helped her settle onto it. "It's a bizarre thing, really. My car disappeared; I mean, it was just _gone _when I got back to the road. I thought it must have been stolen, but…it was locked. At least, I'm pretty sure that it was. And the man at the tow truck service said he'd send someone, but nobody came… I waited for over an hour." She seemed utterly perplexed by this.

"Strange," Mort agreed, having a bad feeling that Shooter had somehow tied himself into this. "What sort of car do you own?"

"A '79 Thunderbird," Alex answered, her face glowing with pride for a short moment.

"Don't see many of those around anymore," Mort said.

"Not really, no," she said, offering a small, nervous smile. A short silence followed.

"Would you like me to call you a cab, then?" Mort asked, plowing his way through the uncomfortable moment.

"Sure," Alex said. Anything to get out of here as soon as possible.

Mort picked up the phone and put it to his ear.

"That's strange," he frowned. "There's no dial tone."

He pressed the button and listened again. Nothing.

"Maybe the lines are down because of the storm?" Alex ventured.

"Must be…" Mort trailed off and strode over to the window, opening the curtains to survey the extent of the storm. Rain and wind blew leaves hard against the glass, obscuring the view of his yard greatly – he could barely see two feet from where he stood. It didn't take him long to make a decision.

"I suppose you might have to stay here, just for tonight," Mort said, turning back towards her. "I'm not quite sure it's safe to drive in this weather…" He waited for a protest, but none came.

"That's fine; I don't really need to be at home tonight." Alex smiled weakly, trying to make light of the situation. Inside, she was dying of embarrassment.

"Good." Another silence followed. Mort cleared his throat. "Shall I get you some dry clothes, then?"

"That would be great, thank you," Alex said, replied.

Mort then strode off and disappeared up the stairs, leaving Alex with her own thoughts for the time being.

He gave her the impression that he was a reclusive sort of person, but he seemed amiable enough to get along with for a short while. She herself had always been a friendly person, and it wasn't hard for her to make conversation. She decided that she could get through this without much difficulty, except for that caused by her lame foot. And perhaps a few unavoidable humiliating moments along the way; somehow she always seemed to involuntarily talk herself into a topic that ended up embarrassing her…..


	4. Knife

Chapter 4

**A/N – Caution: Strong language ahead. We all know how much Mort loves to swear :P**

Alex fidgeted on the sofa as she waited for Mort to return. She looked around the cabin vaguely, more for distraction from the pain in her foot than genuine curiosity. Some of the decorative objects on the shelves appeared quite spooky in the dimness, one African-looking mask in particular. It stared at her with its gaping eye sockets, infinite in their blackness, blind yet all-seeing, its open mouth twisted in a fiendish snarl. Glaring menacingly, it held her gaze captive; she was almost afraid to look away.

A sudden smashing sound from above made her jump, and she heard someone swearing loudly. She wrenched her eyes away from the mask, craning her neck to look up the stairs. Seconds later, Mort dashed down the stairs, clutching his left hand in his right. Blood streamed from between his fingers as he rushed past her into the kitchen, cursing under his breath.

Heart racing, Alex listened to him crash around in the kitchen, drawers and cupboards banging open and closed until he found what he'd been looking for. He emerged some time later, holding a red-stained cloth tightly around the palm of his left hand.

"Are you okay?" Alex asked tentatively, eyes wide.

"Yeah. Left a switchblade in my shirt drawer. I think it snapped open while I was looking through there. Hence -" Mort held up the hand in question. "It's not that bad, don't worry." He gave her a brief smile and returned upstairs.

It never occurred to Alex that he might be lying.

XXXX

Mort peered into his bedroom cautiously. Seeing his bedside lamp in shards on the floor caused his mind to flash back to the incident that had happened only a few minutes prior. It replayed itself vividly in his head.

_ Mort rummaged through his drawer, searching for something appropriate to give to the young woman waiting for him in his living room. He pulled a black shirt out of his drawer, something that his great-aunt had given him for his birthday but that he had never worn. He threw it onto his bed. A twinkle of silver caught his eye as he turned back to the dresser. _

_He carefully pulled his old switchblade from on top of the mess of shirts in the drawer. He'd completely forgotten that he'd put it in there, after it had gotten stuck open during a fishing trip a few years back. He spun the handle between his fingers, admiring the way the silver of the blade caught the light. He threw it onto the bed beside the shirt, making a mental note to put it somewhere where he wouldn't accidentally sever one of his own fingers with it. _

"_She's seen me," a heavily accented voice drawled suddenly from behind him._

_Mort whirled around so rapidly that he almost fell down. Chills ran up and down his spine, and he began to back away as Shooter advanced on him. _

"_She's seen me," Shooter repeated, his eyes blazing. "You know what that means, don't you?" _

_Mort had a very good idea of what it meant._

"_She might tell people," Shooter continued. "And where would that leave me? You know what you need to do…" _

"_Fuck you," Mort hissed defiantly. "I'll do no such thing." _

_Shooter snatched up the knife from the bed and held it in front of him. "You will do exactly_ _as I say, pilgrim. You won't be able to do otherwise. And you know it."_

_Mort seethed with anger. He fought to resist the urge to let his fist lash out and connect with Shooter's face; anywhere on his face. But, buried deep down, somewhere under that anger he was frightened. What if Shooter was right? What if he killed again? This time an innocent young woman, an utter stranger to him, someone he did not know, someone he felt nothing for. He had a hard enough time dealing with four murders, let alone five…His anger deflated, and he felt only despair. _

_Shooter nodded slowly, a wicked smile playing upon his lips. _

_Mort watched the derisive smile and anger boiled up in him again. He barely managed to repress it. Instead, he said calmly: "I'm not going to kill anyone. Get out of my house and stay the fuck away from me." He made to leave._

_Shooter's eyes flashed, and he swiped the knife in a wide arc in front of his body. Mort stopped dead and quickly held up his hands to protect himself, cringing away from the blade. The knife sliced across his palm halfway through the arc, slashing open the skin. A spurt of blood sprayed from the cut. _

"_Fuck!" Mort yelled. He pressed firmly on his palm to stem the bleeding and rushed towards the doorway. In his haste, he knocked over his reading lamp, sending it hurtling to the floor where it broke with a crash. He heard Shooter cackling maliciously behind him as he sped down the stairs, past Alexandra, and into the kitchen to find a bandage for his hand. _

_He found a cloth and tied it around his palm tightly, all the while thinking anxiously about a believable story to tell his guest. He wasn't all that worried about what she might think; he was more concerned about what would happen if Shooter was still there when he returned to his bedroom…_

Mort shook his head and shuddered. Shooter was gone, luckily for him.

He walked over to his bed and picked up the shirt, looking it over. It was still in good condition; it hadn't been stained by his blood. Speaking of which, was all over his blankets and his floor; his lamp had smashed into several large pieces. He knew he'd have a hell of a time cleaning up his bedroom later on.

He slung the shirt over his arm and went back over to his dresser, opening another drawer and pulling out a decent pair of pants, making sure that they had a drawstring.

He was about to walk out when he remembered something that he'd forgotten. He turned around and scanned the room, searching every corner thoroughly with his eyes.

The knife was gone.


	5. Guilt

Chapter 5

Mort had never actually been a people person unless he needed to be. But after being alone for so long, he was glad for Alex's company. She was a laugh, easy to talk to, and having another person around made him feel more comfortable in his own home then he'd felt for a while. Mort had been delighted at discovery of her ambitions to become a writer; it was nice to exchange ideas and insight with someone who was able to give astute responses.

It was just after two-thirty in the morning, and they were both still chortling over a story Alex had been telling about one of her friends. Mort was sitting in his armchair, his shoulders shaking with laughter and his face in his hands. Alex, having donned the clothes Mort had offered to her, was sprawled across his sofa (now dry thanks to an old hair dryer Mort discovered in a box in his bathroom), her sprained ankle propped on the armrest. She was trying and failing horribly not to laugh during the telling of her anecdote.

"…She went completely red, and I thought she was going to die of embarrassment. You can bet she never did that again," Alex finished, sniggering at the memory.

A final chuckle escaped Mort's lips as he leaned back against his chair, sighing in satisfaction. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard. Or laughed at all.

He glanced at his watch and noticed how late it was.

"Shit, its past two-thirty. I mean -" he looked at Alex quickly to see if she had been offended by his language. She had not.

"Wow," she said, turning to look at the clock on his bookshelf. "So it is. I'm sorry!" She looked away, ashamed that she'd kept him up so late. "I hope you don't have to be anywhere tomorrow…"

"Nope," Mort said.

"I suppose we should be going to bed, then?" she asked.

"I suppose that we should," Mort said, smiling. "Let's keep our fingers crossed that the storm blows itself out tonight."

"Agreed," Alex said. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Mort replied with a small smile as he turned towards the staircase. He really didn't want to go back up to his room, but what choice did he have? In any other case, after a visit from Shooter he would have slept on his sofa, but he couldn't very well do that.

His heart pounded as he walked up the stairs and across the floor, stopping in front of his bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. He pushed on it reluctantly, and it opened with a loud creak, making him jump.

He reached around the doorframe and flicked the light switch, feeling very childish at that moment, being afraid to go into his bedroom without plenty of light. Mort peeked his head in; he found his room deserted. There was glass on the floor, and it made him glad he was wearing his slippers as he stepped inside, carefully avoiding the larger pieces and hoping he wouldn't track any tiny shards to other places in the house.

The blankets on his bed sported large patches of splattered blood. He pulled them off and threw them on the floor for the time being. He certainly did not want to go into the pitch-black bathroom closet to get more. After taking a different blanket off the shelf in his closet, he lay on his bed and curled up with his back against the wall, pulling the covers up to his chin. He knew he was being foolish, but he felt safer with the blanket covering him, and he hadn't bothered to turn off the light.

Unable to sleep, he lay there, pondering the day's events.

If only if it hadn't been for Shooter, maybe he could be enjoying a visit with a new person. That knife was still missing, and it made Mort extremely uneasy. Especially after what Shooter had said to him…

Why had he let her stay with him anyway? He was a murderer. Alexandra was in danger every moment she spent here. He kicked himself mentally for realizing this only now. He should have driven her home anyways, the weather notwithstanding. He felt tremendously guilty for putting Alexandra in this situation, but he couldn't do anything about it now.

A creak outside his door made his heart hammer in his chest, and his whole body tensed. But it seemed to have been nothing, and he gradually relaxed once again.

Mort supposed that he had just been craving some human company, after such an extensive amount of time being completely alone. He hadn't trusted himself around people for the longest time after he'd come to terms with what he'd did, so he stayed out here, at his cabin, and had only ventured out for groceries and whatnot. Even then, he'd gone to the city where nobody knew him.

After a few months everything had died down. The police hadn't had enough evidence to prosecute him, and Shooter had only come back periodically. He'd thought he was safe.

Until now.

Mort couldn't fall asleep. He lay awake silently, staring at his ceiling, still jumping at every sound he heard, and let these thoughts run over and over through his head.

XXXX

Alex couldn't seem to fall asleep, either. She didn't know if it was the fact that she was staying the night in a total stranger's home, the fact that she couldn't move properly because of her swollen ankle, or the fact that that African mask was still freaking her out. The stupid thing was still staring at her.

She turned over, away from the mask, and closed her eyes, letting her mind drift. The first thing that popped into her head was Mort. She'd become more comfortable around him after getting to know him a bit, and he definitely didn't seem like one of those usual creepy men that lived alone like she'd goaded herself into believing he would be. He seemed to be a nice enough person, and he was a lot better than some of her ever-partying friends for having an intelligent conversation with. He was even a writer!

However, she was still anxious about her missing car. Why hadn't anyone from the tow company come for her? Had something gone wrong? The weather hadn't been bad at all until she'd arrived at Mort's cabin for the second time.

Alex sighed and opened her eyes to roll over again – only to see a tall, pale man standing over her with a knife, a maniacal glint in his eye.

"Hello, darlin'," he drawled.

She screamed.


End file.
